


You're More My Style

by freshnightmare869



Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), Harry Styles - Fandom, Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Enemies, Famous, Festivals, Larry Stylinson Is Real, Lovers, Maybe - Freeform, Music, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Unrequited Love, almost famous - Freeform, as much angst as I can manage probably, for a bit, music fic, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshnightmare869/pseuds/freshnightmare869
Summary: Everyone calls her 'The Kid'.She isn't one. It's just a nickname - purely ironic - thrust upon her by an old best friend, long lost to time. Now, desperately in need of a stage-name, it becomes a new identity. It's a call sign - something she wears with honor... you can only have a certain thing chanted at you so many times before it starts to really stick.  And the Kid's fresh news. Suddenly her songs are trending on tiktok, she's topping the charts, and hitting the festival scene with a bang.It's all new - too much to navigate. Especially when the one she lost to time reappears, his green-eyed manager close behind.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Original Female Character(s), Harry Styles/Reader
Kudos: 10





	You're More My Style

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry for writing this.
> 
> I'm not.

It's hot. 

Fucking hot. 

Ninth circle; hot as hell. 

The Kid dabs along her upper lip with the flat edge of an outstretched palm; does her best to avoid fucking-up her foundation, though she can already feel it sliding down the perimeter of her face. She grimaces. She's not even on stage, no heavy lights, no expectant whooping of the crowd, but she's already melting. She can feel her tank soaking up the sweat which beads just under her hair-line and rolls unceremoniously down her neck. Not cute, not sexy - just a mess. 

And she's _nervous_. 

"Well," her manager, Amy, takes in a lungful of hot air and plants her hands on her hips. "I mean, it's not Coachella, but it'll do, right?" 

The Kid laughs. "We're not ready for Coachella," she says. 

"We'd have a better trailer at Coachella," Amy muses, voice a little distant. "There'd be snacks and stuff. Chilled champagne..."

"Good cocaine," the Kid adds. "Air-con." 

Amy sighs, shaking her head. "I just want a nice sandwich, or something. I feel like I haven't had real food in 12 years." 

"Maybe 12 minutes." She side-eyes her manager with an amused expression which gives away nothing of her inner crisis. That's just for her, after all. A private indulgence. 

Someone taps her on the arm - it's her guitarist, Aaron. 

"Good to go, Kid." He runs a hand through his hair and though he's visibly melting, head to toe shining, he still looks effortlessly, rock-God, chic. 

She wishes she could say the same of herself. 

"Cool - good." She nods: an affirmation more for herself than anyone else. "I think we're about set. Aside from the fact that I feel like I'm about to perish of heat exhaustion and I can't remember my own name, I'm totally ready." 

"You're the Kid - that's all you gotta know. Here," someone passes her a bottle. It's Jade, her drummer. 

The Kid takes a swig and feels her face crumple - though the familiar tequila-burn is not entirely unappreciated. She swallows, takes another mouthful, and crunches the plastic bottle inside a sweaty palm. 

"Thanks," she grins, hands the debris to Amy who takes it without a word. "Anyone got eyes on Amber?" 

"Here bub." Amber saunters up on her left, expression dazed, shoulders slumped. Upon seeing her you wouldn't believe it possible that she's a visionary on bass, but it all comes out on stage. She saves it, stocks it up. 

"Okay, cool - and Daniel's here somewhere..." 

"Yeah sweets," A voice from offside. 

"On in three - everyone good to go? Everyone sorted?" It's some stage tech with a light pointed at a clipboard. "It's hot as hell out there but the crowd's insane - hyped as fuck to see you." They glance at The Kid's face curiously, with little recognition. "If you need anything - now's your last chance." 

The Kid bristles. "We're good," she says. "Let's do it." 

"Cool - I respect it. Go get 'em." 

The kid takes a moment - just a single moment - to breathe. 

"Okay, huddle." 

Her team crowds around her: faces of strangers who became friends, and then best-friends, and then family, who now, three years in, she can't live without. 

"Okay," she huffs. "This is our biggest show yet. We've worked like dogs to get here. Conan Grey just smiled at me like he knew who I was and that's all the recognition I'm ever gonna need. So - we do this for us, just like always. Whether it's 10, or 10 thousand. I sing for us - how 'bout you?" 

"I only play for us," Aaron chimes. He's the first - always. 

"Me too," it's Daniel. 

"Me three," Jade smiles. "I only play for us." 

"Yeee," Amber laughs, dazed, sticks her tongue out, piercing on display. 

The kid smiles, grins goofy with all her teeth. "How 'bout you Ams?" 

Her manager laughs, pushes her sweaty auburn hair off her face. "I keep it all together," she says, "and I only do it for you - all of you - fucking idiots." 

"Alright - hands in." 

It's a group of sweaty palms atop sweaty palms. But it feels like home. 

"It's not Coachella," Amy repeats. 

"But it'll do!" They all shout. 

It's just an ocean of bodies, then. Roaring. Lights come up and her lips are perched against a microphone. She's got a lime -green guitar in her hands that buzzes beneath her fingertips. She calls out to them and they respond in spades. She's The Kid, after all. Drum sticks click together, and the rest? Well - it's magic, isn't it? 

***

"That was --" 

"Brilliant."

"Amazing."

"Show stopping, spectacular!"

"Never the same!" 

"Totally unique, yeee," Amber chimes in, sticking her tongue out. Her curly fringe is plastered to her face and she looks totally wiped, but her blue eyes are bright and wide with excitement and she's smiling so big it almost hurts to look at her. 

The Kid wipes an arm across her forehead, not bothering to worry about the way she might look, how pasty her complexion might be, how shabby and matted her hair probably is. Her skin is slick with sweat and her face is so flushed she can feel the burn in her cheeks; none of it matters. 

Three minutes into the show her soul left her body and she watched it all take-place from above. It's like that sometimes - performing. It takes you away from yourself but grounds as well, deep inside your body, so you can feel the way it works almost, right down to the tiniest cell, the teensiest strand of DNA. 

It was like that tonight. The lights, the heat, the sound of the crowd. It all came together in a filthy, euphoria-inducing mess. It's the best gig they've ever done, hands down. The Kid can see it in the faces of the people that surround her. She's passed from arm to arm - some, she recognizes (her band, her family, Amy), and others she doesn't (artists, musicians, socialites with expensive back stage passes). They all grasp her tacky skin and tell her how incredible she was, how blown away they are, who they can call, introduce her to, have call her, have her speak to. 

The Kid likes it. She likes all of it. The music starts in a bedroom all alone late at night and then it grows into this: a thousand people connected. The lines outside the festival, the crowd, the shows, the parties and the after-parties and the after-after-parties. There isn't a moment of it she doesn't like. Maybe the songs are birthed form a place of torture, but she isn't a tortured artist - never has been. She wants all of this - every minute of it. 

"Okay so -" Amy pulls her out of a crowd of adorers who make little effort to keep her, they simply move onto the next target. In this case it's Aaron. He opens his arms and is enveloped by the mob. "That was incredible. You were incredible. The band was incredible - go you." 

The Kid rolls her eyes. "Appreciate it, Ams, but feel free to get to your point." 

The brunette squares her shoulder. "Now we've gotta network. You've been invited to about eighty-nine different tents, and ninety-eight different VIP parties. There's about three-hundred fancy execs floating around these parts and even more assistants to fancy execs who've had a spot too much MDMA and are desperate to introduce their boss to 'the next big thing' --"

"Am I the next big thing?" 

"You are, in fact, the next big thing," Amy grins, but it disappears quickly, "if we play it right. SO - the question is: where to go? There's a decent cluster by the Pacifica tent. We could probably hit a number of parties in the general vicinity and throw a wide net. I'll have to make some calls and get our names down, but that's cool," she says it more to herself than to the Kid. She shakes her head. "It'll be fine. This'll be good. But we needa move. You really need to comb your hair and change so grab whoever's coming with, and let's go."

The kid turns around, eyes on the band who are clustered together, laughing, whooping - Aaron already has a beer in his hand. "What's the go guys? Anyone wanna hit these parties with us?" 

Amber is the first to drop off. "Naaaaah," she says, lashes fluttering. "Gonna go smooooke, ha ha!"

"Of course she is," Amy rolls her eyes. 

The Kid elbows her manager lightly in the ribs; Amy throws her a stern look in return and rubs her side with an open palm. 

"Cool, text me when you head back to the hotel."

Amber nods, leans across to wrap the Kid in sweaty embrace. "Tonight was sick, bub. See ya tomorrow." 

"Bye, hun." Squeezes her once more, before turning to the others. "How 'bout it?" 

Aaron and Jade shake their heads, arms already looped together. "We're gonna go get shit faced and ride some rides you should discernibly not ride while shit faced," Aaron says.

Jade grins. "Then we'll probably go for a walk, make-out for a bit, join an orgy --"

"How about you, Daniel?" 

"Back to the hotel, sweets. I'm tired and sweaty and disgusting." 

Jade pushes a stream of air between her lips. "By that he means he's got a hook-up already plaaaan --"

"Mind your business, darling." He brushes an imaginary lock of hair from his forehead. "We can't all be settled in at twenty-three now, can we? Where would be the fun?" 

Jade sticks her tongue out. Daniel blows her a slow kiss. 

"Alright, alright," the Kid interjects, wrapping them all in a four-way embrace. "Go forth, have fun, practice safe-sex and all that. I'll see you all in the morning. Love you." 

It's a chorus of 'love you too's, cheek-kisses and squeezes, before there's only two left, standing outside of the stage, mostly alone. 

"Alright then," the Kid sets off, grin on her face, docs kicking up dust in a cloud in her wake. "Let's get me famous!"

"More famous!" Amy yells, trailing after. 

***

The Pacifica tent is... intense. Everything's blue and there's whales projected on the domed ceiling; there's a heavy sort of house playing that fills the ears and the lungs. Somehow the air's cooler in here. 

In the center of a tent there's a massive ice-carving of Poseidon that looks to be positively _steaming_. There's servers carrying flutes of champagne which glitter and glow blue in the light; there's trays and trays of tiny, bite-sized hors d'oeuvres floating about, as well. 

Everyone's wearing white. 

It's a white party - apparently. 

The Kid looks to her left and is not at all surprised to find Amy in a creamy ensemble that flares baby blue when the lazers cross over her. She glances down, mildly shocked to find that even her own outfit suits: it's a shredded, oversized, _white_ tee, tucked into a pair of crispy white pants. Her docs might be white as well, though when Amy had asked her to change them she'd downright refused. She eyes her dusty black boots with a fond familiarity, glad to be with them, still. 

"This is wild," the Kid breathes, glancing across at her manager. "This is like... a proper A-list party. How'd you get us in here?" 

Amy scoffs. "You're the next big thing, remember?" She pushes at the sleeves of her pretty romper. "It wasn't even hard - after the show you put on tonight? People were practically flinging their cards at me." 

"That good, huh?" 

"That good," Amy affirms. "I'm surprised Pacific didn't wanna sign you then and there, backstage. Shame we had to come all the way to this shit show to talk to 'em." She gestures at the projected whales that flurry across the ceiling. They almost look like holograms, as their light catches against the smokey air. 

"Pacific?" The Kid frowns. "Pacific," she says again. "This is Pacific Records' private tent." 

Amy sighs. "You're so smart, but you're so _fucking_ slow."

"It's been a big night, okay? I'm still coming down. My brain's still on stage." 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, boobie." Amy laughs, loops her arm through the Kid's, starts pulling her towards an unknown something. "This is Pacific's tent. I got our names on the list while you were belting your way through the last chorus of 'True'. The rep practically inserted his card right through my damn palm. See?" She holds her hand in front of the kid's eyes - there's no evidence of injury. 

The Kid swats it away. "They were really that interested?"

"Absolutely. Think they've got some shade recently about their male-to-female-artist ratio or some bullshit."

"So they're misogynists, is what you're saying?" 

"Absolutely," Amy nods. "Old, male, cis-het boomers, the lot of them. But," she continues, "if you intend to dismantle the patriarchy one oligopoly at a time - Pacific Records is a pretty good place to start."

The Kid nibbles at her lip. "I don't hate your logic," she says. "But I also don't wanna just be, I dunno... a marketing strategy? I'm a musician, Ams." 

Amy stops and turns slightly. "Of course you are, boobie. Which is why this is huge for you. Pacific Records is the biggest, baddest label out. I'm not saying you've gotta sign away your soul. I'm not trying to Taylor Swift your rights away, okay? But if we could, fuck me, have this crew distribute for you? You'd be fucking unstoppable. You'd be everywhere. There'd be no end in sight for you. That's what we want, isn't it? The sky's the limit, and all that bullshit, yeah?" 

"Yeah," the Kid nods, tentatively. "That's exactly what we want." 

"Then," Amy continues, "sacrifices must be made. Not huge, moral-panic inducing sacrifices. Just temporary, teeny-tiny, insy-winsy sacrifices - for the greater good of your career." 

The Kid blinks slowly, thinking, before looking down at her smallish friend. "Can you handle these fucker, Ams? You're the smartest bitch I know. If you think you can handle it, then we walk into this soiree with our heads held high and we charm the pants of these old, male, cis-het boomers." 

"I can handle it," Amy affirms. "I can see their saggy balls already." 

The kid nods. "Okay then. Okay - let's do it." 

"Good," Amy grins, "because I've just spotted my contact." She sticks her hand up in the air, and pulls the Kid forward with a sharp tug. "Harry!" She yells to someone, though the Kid isn't sure who. "Hey, Harry! My guy!" 

The pair step up onto an illuminated platform and nearly collide with a server who takes a poorly-timed step backward, to match their own forward motion. Amy manages to evade, being so small as she is, but the Kid gets the brunt of his shoulder as he pivots towards the stairs in an attempt to save his tray of champagne. 

He's successful. But the Kid? Not so much. She stumbles forward, docs clunking together, and mentally prepares herself to hit the ground: a graceless and embarrassing entrance to the most important networking, career making-or-breaking, instance of her entire life. Two hands shoot out to steady her. They aren't her own. 

Painted fingernails. Rings. A tiny little cross. 

_How odd,_ she thinks. 

She looks up. 

Hot people are just people at events like this. There's so many of them it's hard to keep track, hard to feel anxious when you're so inundated with an average of nines that even a straight eight might start to look plain. Everyone has a good tan here, or a nice body that they're not afraid to show off; every girl has full lips and great hair; every dude has a slick fade that cost them way too much - that they're way too proud to flaunt as if it's never been done before. 

Yeah: hot people are just people at events like this. So to say this guy was 'hot' would be grossly misleading, and the Kid was not in the business of telling lies or half-truths. 

She couldn't tell the color of his eyes in this blue light, but she could see the dimple that puckered his cheek as he grinned, trying to steady her without bursting into peels of laughter at what must've been a truly hilarious sight. 

His hair was darkish and curled around his head in an irritating, effortless sort-of way. He wore a white suit that was neither plain nor showy: it's timeless in a way that's also very agitating in just how _nice_ it all looks. He smiles at her, truly fantastic; it disarms her entirely and leaves her with next to no breath in her lungs for when he introduces himself as:

"Harry Styles,"

And she says... nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

"You alright?" He asks, still grinning. Still disarming though there is nothing left to disarm. To say she is entirely, entirely disarmed is an understatement of epic proportion. 

"Harry!" 

She's saved. She's totally, totally saved.

"Harry," Amy says again, wrapping and arm around the Kid's waste, returning her to a fully up-right position. "Harry, my guy! Glad to see a familiar face. How's this tent, then? It's breathtaking. I don't even remember my own name!" 

The guy - Harry - laughs. Disarming. Totally disarming. 

"It's pretty alright, I'd say." He reaches across and embraces Amy casually, easily, the way only truly and utterly gorgeous people engage with others. 

When they separate Amy squeezes the Kid's side. She lurches back to life. 

"This is my girl," Amy beams, running an arm through the air - it's pure showmanship. "The one, the only, star of the show." 

Harry laughs again, light eyes breezing over the Kid with a gentle curiosity. She still can't tell their color. It's _irritating.  
_

"Nice to meet you upright..." he leaves the sentence open for her name.

"Um," she pauses, almost gives the guy her real name, but swallows it down, just in the nick of time. "It's Kid," she says. "Everyone just calls me Kid." 

The skin between his brows puckers. "Interesting," he muses. "Have to say I was pretty excited to meet you, Kid - I caught the end of the show. Amazing stuff," he gushes. "I could listen to you all the time, really, you've got the most incredible --" He pauses, brows lifting some, dimple puckering in his cheek. "Perfect timing," he says to someone over the Kid's shoulder. "I can introduce you two. Kid this is --" 

"Kid?" 

She freezes. Someone steps up behind her. Warmth at her shoulder. A voice she hasn't heard. She feels a sense of something lost. 

_She pulls uncomfortably at her uniform because this skirt was surely not this short when her mother had bought it in the beginning of summer. She felt exposed now. Might as well've just come to school in her undies. She can see over top of everyone. They all seem to sneer at her - it's as if they're mad to be below her. She wants to yell at them. She wants to disappear.  
_

_Someone sidles up to her left. It's warmth at her shoulder. She turns around and down to gaze at them: a blonde haired boy - the top of his head not even gracing her chin.  
_

_"You're tall," he says casually. Unbothered. "How old are you?"  
_

_She swallows. "Ten," she whispers.  
_

_"Cool." The boy nods, brushes his hand through floppy, golden locks. "I'm twelve," he says, matter-of-factly. "So I think I'll call you 'Kid'."  
_

_It barely makes sense, though he sits down next to her and starts unpacking his lunch. Only friends give each-other nicknames, right? She thinks she must have made her first friend, so she doesn't argue.  
_

_She's the Kid now.  
_

"Is that you, Kid?" 

She turns around to face him. 

"Louis?" 

**Author's Note:**

> Still not sorry.
> 
> STILL NOT SORRY.


End file.
